The Lost Throne

Publishing a book requires a collective effort, so I would like to thank a few of the people who helped
The Lost Throne
see the light of day.

As always, I’d like to start off by thanking my family. Without their love and support, I wouldn’t be the writer (or the person) that I am today.

Professionally, I want to thank Scott Miller, my remarkable agent. Before we teamed up, I couldn’t find a publisher. Now my books are available in several languages around the world. How you pulled off that miracle, I’ll never know. But keep up the great work! While I’m at it, I want to thank Claire Roberts, my main foreign agent, and everyone else at Trident Media who has helped my career during the past few years. Wow, what a great organization.

Actually, I can say the same thing about the Penguin Group. In particular, I’d like to single out my editor, Natalee Rosenstein, and her amazing assistant, Michelle Vega. Working with them has been wonderful. I’d also like to thank Ivan Held and the publishing and marketing wizards at Putnam. I hope this is the beginning of a long relationship.

Next up is my extraordinary friend Ian Harper. Through the magic of e-mail, he gets to read my work before anyone else, and his suggestions and advice are always invaluable. So if anyone’s looking for a freelance editor, let me know. I’d be happy to put you in touch with him.

Last but not least, a big thanks to all the readers, booksellers, critics, and librarians who have read my books and recommended them to others. At this stage of my career, I need all the help I can get, so I would appreciate your continued support.

Okay. Now that I’m done expressing my gratitude, it’s time for the good stuff.

Just sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story. . . .

CHRISTMAS
DAY
, 1890

Piazza della Santa Carità
Naples, Italy

T
he greatest secret of Ancient Greece was silenced by a death in Italy.

Not a shooting or a stabbing or a murder of any kind—although dozens of those would occur later—but a good old-fashioned death. One minute the man was strolling across the Piazza della Santa Carità, pondering the significance of his discovery; the next he was sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the cold square. People rushed to his side, hoping to help him to his feet, but one look at his gaunt face told them that he needed medical attention.

Two policemen on horseback were flagged down, and they rushed him to the closest hospital, where he slipped in and out of consciousness for the next hour. They asked him his name, but he couldn’t answer. His condition had stolen his ability to speak.

The man wore a fancy suit and overcoat, both of which revealed his status. His hair was thin and gray, suggesting a man in his sixties. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip.

Doctors probed his clothes, searching for identification, but found nothing of value. No papers. No wallet. No money. If they had only looked more closely, they might have noticed the secret pocket sewn into the lining of his coat, and the mystery would have ended there. But as hospital policy dictated, no identification meant no treatment. Not even on Christmas morning.

With few options, the police took him to the local station house, an ancient building made of brick and stone that would shelter him from the bitter winds of the Tyrrhenian Sea. They fed him broth and let him rest on a cot in an open cell, hoping he would regain his voice.

In time, he regained several.

Starting with a whisper that barely rose above the level of his breath, the sound slowly increased, building to a crescendo until it could be heard by the two officers in the next room. They hurried down the corridor, expecting to find the stranger fully awake and willing to answer their questions. Instead they saw a man in a semicata tonic state who was babbling in his sleep.

His eyes were closed and his body was rigid, yet his lips were forming words.

One of the officers made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer while the other ran for a pencil and paper. When he returned, he pulled a chair up to the cot and tried to take notes in a small journal. Maybe they’d get an address. Or if they were really lucky, maybe even a name. But they got none of those things. In fact, all they got was more confused.

The first words spoken were German. Then French. Then Portuguese. Before long he was mixing several languages in the same sentence. Dutch followed by Spanish and Latin. English layered with Greek and Russian. Every once in a while he said something in Italian, but the words were so random and his accent so thick that they made little sense. Still, the officer transcribed everything he could, and before long he noticed some repetition. One word seemed to be repeated over and over. Not only in Italian but in other languages as well.

Il trono. Le trône. El trono.

The throne.

This went on almost for several minutes. Language after language from one man’s mouth. Like the devil speaking in tongues. Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped.

No more words. No more clues.

The man would never speak again.

Two days later, after he had been identified, newspapers around the globe reported his death. Yet there was no mention of his strange behavior. Nothing about his ramblings or the throne he kept describing. Instead, reporters focused on the colorful details of his life—his wealth, his accomplishments, his discoveries. All the things that made him famous.

Of course, if they had known the truth about his final days, what he had finally found after years of searching, they would have written a much different story.

One of fire, deception, and ancient gold.

One that wouldn’t have an ending for almost two more centuries.

PRESENT
DAY

Saturday, May 17
Metéora, Greece

T
he monk felt the wind on his face as he plummeted to his death, a journey that started with a scream and ended with a thud.

Moments before, he had been standing near the railing of the Moni Agia Triada, the Monastery of the Holy Trinity. It was one of six monasteries perched on natural rock pillars near the Pindus Mountains in central Greece. Known for their breathtaking architecture, the monasteries had been built 2,000 feet in the air with one purpose in mind: protection.

But on this night, their sanctuary was breached.

The intruders had crossed the valley and climbed the hillside with silent precision. They carried no guns or artillery, preferring the weapons of their ancestors. Swords stored in scabbards were strapped to their backs. Daggers in leather sheaths hung from their hips. Bronze helmets covered their entire heads except for their eyes and mouths.

Centuries ago the final leg of their mission would have been far more treacherous, requiring chisels and ropes to scale the rock face. But that was no longer the case—not since 140 steps had been carved into the sandstone, leading to the entrance of Holy Trinity. Its front gate was ten feet high and made of thick wood, yet they breached it easily and slipped inside, spreading through the compound like a deadly plague.

The first to die was the lookout, who, instead of doing his job, had been staring at the twinkling lights of Kalampáka, the small city that rested at the base of the plateau. Sadly, it was the last mistake he ever made. No questions were asked, no quarter was given. One minute he was pondering the meaning of life, the next his life was over.

No bullets. No blades. Just gravity and the rocks below.

One of the monks inside the church heard his scream and tried to warn the others, but before he could, the intruders burst through both doors. Brandishing their swords, they forced all the monks into the center of the room, where the holy men were frisked and their hands were tied.

Seven monks in total. A mixture of young and old.

Just as the intruders had expected.

For the next few minutes, the monks sat in silence on the hard wooden pews. Some of them closed their eyes and prayed to God for divine intervention. Others seemed reconciled to their fate. They had known the risks when they accepted this duty, what their brotherhood had endured and protected for centuries.

They were the keepers of the book. The chosen ones.

And soon they would be forced to die.

With the coldness of an executioner, the leader of the soldiers strode into the church. At first glance he looked like a moving work of art. Muscle stacked upon muscle in statuesque perfection. A gleaming blade in his grasp. Unlike the others who had entered before him, he wore a helmet topped with a plume of red horsehair, a crest that signified his rank.

To the monks, he was the face of death.

Without saying a word, he nodded to his men. They sprang into action, grabbing one of the monks and dragging him toward the stone altar. Orthodox tradition prevented the brethren from trimming their facial hair after receiving tonsure—a symbolic shaving of their heads—so his beard was long and gray, draping the front of his black cassock like a hairy bib.

“What do you want from us?” cried the monk as he was shoved to his knees. “We have done nothing wrong!”

The leader stepped forward. “You know why I’m here. I want the book.”

“What book? I know nothing about a book!”

“Then you are no use to me.”

He punctuated his statement with a flick of his sword, separating the monk from his head. For a split second the monk’s body didn’t move, somehow remaining upright as if no violence had occurred. Then Suddenly, it slumped forward, spilling its contents onto the floor.

Head on the left. Body on the right. Blood everywhere.

The monks gasped at the sight.

“Bring me another,” the leader ordered. “One who wants to live.”

SUNDAY
,
MAY
18

St. Petersburg, Florida

T
he phone rang in the middle of the night, sometime between last call and breakfast. The time of night reserved for two things: emergencies and wrong numbers.

Jonathon Payne hoped it was the latter.

He rolled over in the hotel bed and reached for the nightstand, knocking something to the floor in his dark room. He had no idea what it was and wasn’t curious enough to find out. Still feeling the effects of his sleeping pill, he knew if he turned on a light he would be awake until dawn. Of that he was certain. He had always been a problem sleeper, an issue that had started long before his career in the military and had only gotten worse after.

Then again, years of combat can do that to a person.

And he had seen more than most.

Payne used to lead the MANIACs, an elite Special Forces unit comprising the top soldiers from the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force, and Coast Guard. Whether it was participating in personnel recovery, unconventional warfare, or counterguerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best. The boogeymen that no one talked about. The government’s secret weapon.

Yet on this night, Payne wanted no part of his former life.

He just wanted to get some sleep.

“Hello?” he mumbled into the hotel phone, expecting the worst.

A dial tone greeted him. It was soft and steady like radio static.

“Hello?” he repeated.

But the buzzing continued. As if no one had even called. As if he had imagined it.

Payne grunted and hung up the phone, glad he could roll over and go back to sleep without anything to worry about. Thrilled it wasn’t an emergency. He’d had too many of those when he was in the service. Hundreds of nights interrupted by news. Updates that were rarely positive.

So in his world, wrong numbers were a good thing. About the best thing possible.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case here.

S
everal hours later Payne opened the hotel curtains and stepped onto his private veranda at the Renaissance Vinoy in downtown St. Petersburg. Painted flamingo pink and recently restored to its former glory, the resort was a stunning example of 1920s Mediterranean Revival architecture. The type of grand hotel that used to be found all over Florida yet was quickly becoming extinct in the age of Disneyfication.